I.

Dinner in the wardroom had been over for some time, and the long table in the centre of the apartment was cleared. The mess, though it was close on ten o'clock, seemed very full of officers, far more crowded than on ordinary evenings, and it was noticeable that all wore 'monkey-jackets'—the ordinary eight-buttoned reefer coats usually seen in the daytime—instead of the customary mess-jackets, low waistcoats, and starched white shirts.

The unusual size of the gathering was accounted for partly by the fact that it happened to be the evening of 4th August 1914, when people were expecting things to happen, and partly because a six-inch gun casemate, which ordinarily served as an officers' smoking-room, had been bereft of its furniture, supplied with a number of evil-looking shell, and had otherwise been converted to the grim legitimate function for which it had originally been intended—that is, as an armoured position for the gun and its crew.

Pipes and cigarettes were going full blast, and the air in the wardroom was blue with tobacco-smoke. A few of the occupants were seated in arm-chairs or on the sofas, re-reading the morning papers or assimilating the latest news from the early evening editions, which had arrived with the last post at eight o'clock. But by far the greater number were arguing and talking loudly, as was their habit.

The mess itself looked rather bare, for pictures had vanished from the bulkheads, and the carpet, the piano, and certain other not strictly necessary articles of furniture had disappeared. They had gone the way of a good many other things—ashore out of harm's way, where their presence could not be the cause of possible fires or splinters. Less than a fortnight later, however, the younger members of the mess were all clamouring for the return of the piano. They couldn't have their sing-songs without it, they explained—which was perfectly true. Moreover, they said, they were sick unto death of Peter Wooten's bagpipes, the padre's banjo, and Boyle's penny whistle, the only other musical instruments in the mess; and so, after some discussion, the piano came back, like the landlady's cat. The cabins, too, were practically gutted. FitzJohnson, who loved comfort, nearly wept when he entered his. His silk hangings and curtains, pictures, and photographs had been torn ruthlessly from their fastenings and sent ashore. They had filched his carpet and his chest of drawers. A score or so of exquisite striped shirts, many suits of plain clothes, his uniform full dress, frock-coats, and mess-jackets, which fitted his figure like a glove, and shore-going boots of all kinds, shapes, and colours, had been packed up in a box and sent to his long-suffering outfitter's for storage. Little had been left him beyond his shallow bath, the drawers under the bunk, a bookcase containing the King's Regulations and Admiralty Instructions, the Addenda thereto, and a washstand. Everything else seemed to have gone. He complained bitterly, poor fellow, for his exquisite soul rebelled at this wholesale desecration.

The general atmosphere in the wardroom was by no means gloomy or sad. On the contrary, every one seemed to be bubbling over with good spirits. In some cases, perhaps, the hilarity was a trifle forced, for when folk realise that war is practically inevitable they think they must appear to be cheerful whatever their personal feelings may be. As a consequence, they sometimes overdo it. But there were no signs of depression; neither did one see the fierce aspect, tightly shut mouth, puckered brow, and general 'do or die' appearance usually associated with the eve of hostilities by sensational writers. They all knew that the chances were fully 100 to 1 that they were about to take part in the greatest struggle the world had ever known. Germany was already at war with Russia; Teuton troops had violated the neutrality of Lùxemburg and Belgium, and had crossed the French frontier at various points; so it seemed impossible that Great Britain could refrain from joining in the conflict.

Ever since the early afternoon things had been humming. Urgent telegrams in cipher and wireless signals in code, the purport whereof was unknown to any but the senior officers, had been pouring in all day. Steam for full speed had been raised, and the ships were ready to move at an instant's notice; while Captain Spencer had been on board the flagship during the afternoon, and was away for a very long time. But not till afterwards did any of them know that the British ultimatum had already been handed to Germany.

Nobody was anything but cheerful. Their loyalty to their king, their anxiety to fight and overcome in a just cause, and, if need be, their readiness to die could not be expressed in mere words. There was no necessity for it. They took all that as a matter of course. They had been brought up to the idea ever since they had joined the service, so why talk about it?

Cashley, the fleet paymaster, was vainly endeavouring to get up a four at auction bridge. 'What about it, padre?' he asked. 'Going to take a hand?'

His reverence, deep in the Globe, looked up. 'Bridge,' he said, shaking his head; 'not to-night, Pay; thanks, all the same.'

'What about you, No. 1?'

'Can't be done, Pay. Too busy, I'm afraid.'

'Busy! You're not busy now?'

Chase laughed. 'It's all jolly well for you to talk,' he answered good-naturedly. 'You've the prospect of a night in your bunk. I may be dragged out at any time to get the anchor up if we go to sea. Besides, the sailors are at night defence stations, and it's my morning watch. Heigho! it's jolly nigh time I turned in.' He glanced up at the clock.

'Won't any one play bridge?' the fleet paymaster inquired plaintively, looking round. 'The night's still young.'

All the usual habitués of the game shook their heads in dissent.

'This isn't an evening for bridge at all,' chipped in the engineer-commander disapprovingly, looking up over the edge of his paper. 'We don't want to be like Nero, fiddling while Rome burnt.'

'What bunkum you talk, chief!' retorted Cashley. 'Because we're going to war is no reason why we shouldn't have a little innocent amusement. What about Drake and his game of bowls on Plymouth Hoe?'

'That yarn's all rot!' said the engineer-commander. 'I know it's quoted in all the history books; but I don't believe it's true, all the same.'

'And I,' said Chase, knocking out his pipe, 'would most respectfully submit, my dear Pay, that the defeat of the Spanish Armada took place in Anno Domini 1588.'

'And what the deuce has that got to do with it?'

'Merely that such things as wireless telegraphy, submarines, and destroyers steaming thirty-five knots weren't invented when Sir Francis served in the Home Fleet under Lord Howard of Effingham.'

'Well,' Cashley observed with a sigh, seeing his efforts were quite futile, 'I'm sure bridge wasn't invented in Drake's time either, or he'd have taken to the game at once. It's an excellent stimulant for one's brain. However, since you're all so mouldy, I suppose I must hie me to the fastnesses of my apartment and turn in. Good-night, everybody.' He left the wardroom and closed the door behind him.

'Poor old Pay!' the first lieutenant remarked with a yawn; 'he's so devilish keen on his bridge. This is the first evening he's not had it for weeks, and the old dear misses it. However, I shall follow his most excellent example by retiring to my cabin.—Peter, old son,' he added, kicking the senior watch-keeper gently as he sprawled in an arm-chair, 'you're keeping the middle watch at the guns, aren't you?'

'I am, No. 1,' Wooten nodded. 'What of it?'

'Be a good chap, and have me called if war's declared, if any one fires a torpedo at us, or if you sight another Zeppelin.' He winked slyly at FitzJohnson. 'Also, at ten minutes to four; and tell the messenger to drag me out of bed. If you love me very much, Peter boy, you can have a nice cup of hot cocoa waiting for me when I come up.'

Peter rose from his chair and blinked sleepily. 'My love for you, No. 1' he declared with great gravity, making a low bow with his hand on his heart, 'has long since passed its platonic stage. I will prepare your cocoa with mine own fair hands, and would even embrace your chaste cheek before you retire to your couch.' He stretched out his arms and advanced.

'Touch me if you dare, varlet!' Chase exclaimed, avoiding him neatly, and darting to the door.—'Well, s'long, all you chaps; sleep well' He paused with the door open.—'I say, Dook, old man!'

FitzJohnson looked up.

'If you see another Zep, old bird, you might take a photo of it. There's a camera in my cabin.' He vanished, chuckling.

Some time after eleven P.M., when the wardroom had been closed for the night and the officers had retired to their cabins, the sound of frantic cheering suddenly echoed out over the water. It came from the direction of the flagship; and Tickle, the officer of the watch in the Belligerent, paused in his perambulation. It could only mean one thing.

Ten minutes later he was reading his Majesty's message to Sir John Jellicoe, the Commander-in-Chief of the Home Fleet:

'At this grave moment in our national history, I send to you, and through you to the officers and men of the fleet of which you have assumed command, the assurance of my confidence that under your direction they will revive and renew the glories of the Royal Navy, and prove once again the sure shield of Britain and her Empire in her hour of trial.'

'And a jolly fine message, too,' Tickle muttered to himself. 'God bless him!'

Almost simultaneously came the official intimation that a state of war existed between Great Britain and Germany as from eleven P.M. on 4th August. The news spread like wildfire, and the 'Belligerents,' not to be outdone, left their hammocks en masse, crowded on the upper deck, and gave vent to their pent-up feelings and enthusiasm in volley after volley of cheers. They were quite irrepressible, and before very long the 'squeegee band,'[ [29] composed of two drums, a dozen fifes, many mouth-organs, and an unholy number of mess kettles and other noisy utensils, was marching round the deck making the night hideous. The noise did not cease till well after midnight.

War had come.